


Mindfuck

by doodnoice



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Death Threats, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Insults, Johnny's an asshole what's new?, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Name-Calling, Not Beta Read, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Physical Abuse, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Sex Toys, Slow Romance, Suicide mention, Threats of Violence, Voyeurism, possessive thoughts, reader - Freeform, will be edited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:40:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodnoice/pseuds/doodnoice
Summary: You have a killer headache that goes by the name Johnny Silverhand, and you’re all he's got.Johnny Silverhand/Reader (Fem V)***Chapters 1 and 2 are officially edited. Chapter 3 editing is in progress. Chapter 4 writing is at 10%
Relationships: Johnny Silverhand/Female V, Johnny Silverhand/Reader
Comments: 46
Kudos: 265





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> the prologue. very plot heavy if ur into that. the most canon compliant this fics gonna get lmaoo. pron starts next chapter bc i cant help myself 💓💕💅🏽

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 02/14: grammatical errors, minor additional plot content added
> 
> Warnings*: Character death, Murder, Self-deprecating/depreciating thoughts, Physical abuse, Death threats
> 
> *Please read the tags for anything that I might have missed, and to be aware of topics that are featured in future chapters.

Your life coach told you to keep a journal to write all your thoughts down in— the good, the bad, and the ugly. He said it'd help you process all the confusing fucked up shit into less confusing fucked up shit until you'd finally come to the realization things were never quite as bad as they seemed. Of course, you're paraphrasing, but it was funny hearing him say that; he talked like he knew you, like you were redeemable— irreplaceable, a valuable, productive member of society.

... See? Funny.

But it doesn't matter what he thought. He's in the past now, and you never did quite finish all of your sessions with him. Your treatment plan is probably left filed off somewhere in some semi-hidden folder on his desktop, or better yet, deleted into a void of near untraceable code.

It'd almost be depressing if you hadn't already made up in your mind that your life is no longer your own.

That's funny too, in a paradoxical way, how there was a time you wished for nothing more than to just be yourself, and yet still ended up as someone else entirely. Most days you can barely stomach looking in the mirror.

Guess that's why they have an "OFF" feature, because let's face it— you're not the only sick bastard in Night City. Not by a long shot.

———

_Money exchanges hands, and just like that, the funeral's over._

_"Thanks for the business, uh... what should I call you?"_

_A glance between the body in the trunk and the nice "dry cleaner" an old friend hooked you up with, and suddenly a legend is born._

_"V... V is fine, thanks." You smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes._

———

Just give it a couple of years; you'll catch up.

———

The city air is metallic and rank, like sweat and musk and dried blood caked on blacktop during the height of summer. It's disgusting. Rancid.

It's home.

It's a smell you've come to associate with comfort, for lack of anything else. It sticks to your clothes like sun against skin, a scent that lingers even in the sweltering heat of the badlands, of corporate conference rooms only barely masked by expensive perfumes or colognes. And when you breathe deep, you'll find yourself wondering how many years you just shaved off your life through pure pollution alone. Would it really matter if you knew?

"-hear me, chica?"

Your elbow slips off of the countertop, nearly sending you off your stool if not for Jackie catching you with one hand, keeping you steady.

"Huh? Wha?" You sound dumb, even for an amateur merc, but Jackie doesn't mind. He's good like that.

He looks you over once, checking on you, before going back to his meal: a takeout box filled with something spicy, ate with cheap, disposable chopsticks and lukewarm Nicola. You think he might be eating rice cakes or something else smothered in chili sauce, but you don't bother asking.

You haven't eaten since breakfast the day before in order to make rent this month, but Jackie doesn't need to know that.

"It's the major leagues, V. With Dex, we'll finally catch that break we've been looking for." He wipes sauce off of his mouth with his sleeve, and, using his chopsticks, points at you, "Can finally stop scraping by, become _legends_."

Legends, huh?

He says the word like it means something, and you suppose for a guy like Jackie Welles, it does. He grew up in Heywood, almost died there, too. You, though? You got out— skipped town like a rat escaping through the sewers, except instead of finding the light at the end of the shit filled tunnel, you ended up in a landfill still within city limits. You never left. Not really. But you should've known better than to think you could; Night City doesn't let people go so easily.

Jackie nudges you. "Don't tell me you're getting cold feet."

What's he talking about again? _Oh, right—_

"I don't know, Jack... it'd be an opportunity for sure, but Dex? He left for a reason. And the fact that he's back and fingered _us_ for the job?" You shake your head and blow the dye dead wisps of your hair from your cheek, "It's shady, choom. Shady as fuck. You know it is."

Jackie sighs, and you almost feel bad about bursting his bubble. "C'mon, V... get your head in it, yeah?" He nudges you again, this time nearly off of your stool. When you glare at him, he only laughs. "It's all shady, hermana. All of it. We're mercs, the only thing we know is shady shit."

"True, but—"

"Just meet with him, alright? Hear him out," Jackie finishes off the last of his food, slurping the remaining few morsels with a satisfied _"ahh"_ before giving you back his full attention. "And then, if you still feel like it's crap, well... we'll see." But there's this twinkle in his eye that tells you he's going to convince you, some way, some how.

"Yeah, yeah..." you wave him off, "I'll meet him. It's not like we have any other legendary fixers sniffing us out."

The smile he gives you almost makes it easier to ignore your gut. That initial hesitancy fades into the background like the city crowd bustling around you— loud like it should be, but quieted by your mind.

"Alright! That's what I'm talkin' about, choombatta!" Jackie stands and tosses his empty box into the trash. "Let's get you to the doc first, though. Gotta make sure that last op didn't fuck you up too good." He pokes your forehead with one blunt finger, and you push his hand away with a genuine smile.

"Dumbass."

"Ah, but you love me."

"Eh."

———

You should have listened to your gut.

"Jackie, come on, Jackie it's— it's gonna be OK— it's gonna—" your fingers slip through his blood, or... or maybe it's yours? You're not even sure anymore. You hurt all over, think you may have gotten shot by one of Arasaka's guards, but Jack? He's the one turning pale and looking at you all sad like.

Fuck... _fuck!_ Why? Why is he looking at you like that? Why's he acting like he's not gonna make it? Why? Why? Why? _Why wasn't it you?_

"I suggest you try to keep Mr. Welles conscious," the Delamain taxi announces in that default-AI tone of voice that sets your teeth on edge. Delamain doesn't get it, doesn't understand the way your eyes burn and your ears ring, the way your panic keeps rising and rising and fucking _rising_ , but why should he? Death's not a concept software struggles with. So you ignore him, choosing to focus in on Jackie instead, on the helpless feeling twisting your stomach in knots, because you can't do anything else.

"I can see the way the chips are falling... You're gonna be rich, mija..." Jackie's voice is barely a whisper, but he sounds... hopeful. A complete contrast to the way blood and sweat stinks in the air between you. _No, please, no, not again._ You close your eyes tight, but snap them open less than a second later, terrified that your friend— your best and only friend in this entire filthy fucking world will be gone and your only memory left of him will be his blood stinging the cuts on your hands.

You stare, horrified, numb and end up barely registering when Jackie takes the biochip out of his head and slides it into yours. His rough, sticky fingers brush against your earlobe just as his hand drops, weakened. You catch it though— you'll always catch him—, and hold it as if to keep him tethered here with you.

For a second, he doesn't look sad, he doesn't even look scared. He's... content. _Proud_. Looking at you like the sun shines out of your ass, and you're worth the bullet he took to the gut, because he loves you. You're his reckless, dumbass best friend and he still loves _you_. And then he's gone. His hand in yours goes slack, and you see the moment the light in his eyes fade until all that's left is a dull, hazy gloss.

You haven't cried in years— not since you became the last member of your family, not even when you nearly died post contract gone wrong and Vik had to fix you up without a whiff of anesthesia. You've started to think you couldn't anymore— that years on the streets and your brief stint as a corpo hardened you like chrome.

But when you lean back, still holding Jackie's lifeless but warm hand, you feel a tickle against your cheek and close your eyes.

"Mr. Welles has passed away. Where shall I take his remains?"

———

"Your face, got blood all over it," Dex takes another big puff of smoke, suddenly calm after blowing up about your failure to predict the impossible with the clashing Arasaka heads.

You touch your cheek and find it wet, sticky. Something raw itches in your throat.

"The bathroom's there," Dex gestures, "Go get yourself cleaned up."

If you could feel, his words would've sent ice through your veins.

You fucked up, _sure_ — even you can admit the job didn't go as planned, but this gig was doomed from the start. It was all bad luck and even worse timing, and now Bug's gone, Jackie's gone, and Saburo Arasaka's murder is being pinned on you even though all you did was _watch_. Honestly, at this point, you're sort of wishing you did kill the old bastard. Should've got his shitty son, too. At least then you'd feel a little bit vindicated about your pending doom... probably.

But when the Arasaka empire gets to you— and they will get to you—, they'll get to _everyone_ , which, now just includes you and Dex, and you know Dex isn't going to risk dying for some no name mercenary with nothing but a broken biochip in their brain and stained palms.

"V?"

You look up, but your eyes don't fully register what you're seeing. Dex's face wavers like a screen with bad reception. You blink it away, blink it clear, and nod. "Yeah, yeah... I'll— yeah..."

You enter the bathroom and rinse your hands first, then your face. You're shaking, knees wanting to buckle, but you hold straight, watching pink water swirl down the drain. Jackie's blood, your own, you can't distinguish it, it's all the same... When you die, is there even anyone left to wonder about your funeral?

You see her then, in the mirror— a brief flash of a face that's your own, but distinctly not. And she's fucking laughing at you. Rage boils quick, tension winding your arm up and back until you slam your fist into the mirror, shattering it and popping something in your knuckles. You don't look down at it, though, still glaring at your reflection, a haggard representation of the person you failed to be, because you're a fuck up. A worthless waste of space.

Your stomach clenches, throat spasming on a dry heave. If you ate something earlier, you might have thrown up.

You feel sick and numb. Not quite accepting, but not willing to fight it either. When you exit the bathroom, the first punch feels like nothing— expected and flat. Dex's guard is all muscle, though— like most animals, he weighs like a ton of steel, and when he kicks you in the face, you almost forget how to breathe.

Dex approaches you just as you regain your vision, talking shit, and you don't know why, but the vitriol at his obvious betrayal has you shouting through the pain of your mouth and nose bleeding, your eyes swelling shut.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

You see down the barrel, and it's like time has slowed down, but you don't regret your threat even as empty as it's looking to be. A pause, and then a numbing pain. The bullet feels like a shock of lightning, while the death tastes like _static_.

———

Your life from then on is one clusterfuck of a nightmare to another. Your digitized hell is bluer than you thought it'd be, and that angel they say is supposed to decide your fate looks more like a washed up retro douchebag than El Padre ever bothered mentioning during his sermons. Except when you finally approach him, you realize it's not an angel; it's _you_. And when you die a legend whose music still sells in vinyls through shady antique shops, and plays on Saturday mornings as rock classics, your death tastes different— like grime and grit, artificial— like they _wanted_ it to hurt.

Waking up afterwards feels like a mistake. You blinked your way through an eerie red reboot message, and felt the way nerves and muscle stitched together like glue and _ached_. You shouldn't be alive— you can't be, and yet you are. Like a demon clawing its way back from Hell, you wrestle your way out of garbage and crawl, and watch from there as your life unfolds right before your eyes, both the passenger and the driver, even though you still feel like the dead body in the trunk.

———

After Takemura rescues you from your dumpster heap grave, Viktor does all he can to help, but there's only so much one top-notch ripperdoc can do when faced with the impossible. You can tell it eats him up inside, too— can hear the waver in his voice as he answers your questions, though he tries to hide it.

Misty handles the situation entirely different— both more hopeful, but devastatingly realistic. When it's your time, it's your time. You never much minded her philosophy, because you always figured when you died it'd be quick: a shot to the head, maybe two, but be out by the first if you were lucky.

Turns out you were at least half right, just... you never expected to come back, especially not under these circumstances.

"Get some rest, promise, V?" Misty smiles gently and it takes you the entire time of watching her exit your apartment to remember who the fuck V is. You feel like you're losing your mind.

But then she's gone, and you're left alone. Again. But this time your apartment feels a lot colder... haunted, almost.

It's appropriate, though, all things considered. You did bring home a ghost, after all— a dead rockerboy terrorist turned brain melting hitchhiker. Or, hell, maybe _you're_ the ghost. Or a zombie. One of those shitty ones that don't even eat people. They just shamble around, all rot and dumb patience, waiting for the mercy of their next death, because there's nothing else left to do but wait.

_Fuck..._

You may not know Johnny Silverhand, _not yet_ , but you think you hate him.

———

Johnny, on the flipside, _knows_ he hates you. But it's nothing personal. Really.

You're just... in his way. The current immoveable object to his unstoppable force. It's frustrating— _you're frustrating_ , and you haven't even noticed him, yet.

He's been watching you since you bit the bullet. Literally. Got the shorthand version of your life story, too. It went: something, something, family trauma, something, something, death, new identity, death again. Was he paying attention? Well, yes and no.

'Yes', because it's kind of difficult to ignore a person's most defining moments when they're playing in your head like the world's worst trailer cut movie, and 'no', because he just doesn't care. And why should he?

This is clearly some Arasaka-backed bullshit meant to scare him or pick his brain so that they can find out what he's cooking up next in his bag of handcrafted 'fuck you's for corporations at large.

And you? You're probably some corpo paid whore he fucked while on a bender. Must not have been a good lay, either, since he can't remember shit. But while he was out, you must have done _something_ to him, or maybe it's this crappy apartment you brought him to, because he can't open up any fucking doors. He can barely even touch you— like his hand is only 60% solid, able to garner the faintest touch, more solid if he focuses, but not nearly enough to wake you or grab you, let alone scare you into telling him what he needs to know. 

So, he's stuck waiting until you wake up on your own. He might not be able to hurt you, not in the way he wants, but he can work with what he's got. He has to. He doesn't have any other choice.

———

Your awakening is a rude one; a pounding headache echoes off the back of your skull. Rhythmic. Steady. An irritating _thump_. You crack your eyes open, still exhausted and dying, but cognizant enough to feel the presence of someone else in the room with you.

You peek to your left, sore neck just barely moving until you spot the source of the _thumping_ you thought was just in your head.

A man with black shoulder length hair, sunglasses, and dark red leather pants is hitting the back of his head against the wall in a tempo almost exact to the beat of your headache. When he speaks, there's an edge to it— hatred so thick you can feel it and it's clearly directed at you. "Need a smoke, where'd you stash yours?"

The effort it takes for you to stand and confront him makes the man shimmer for a second, almost like he's... glitching.

Reality sets in fast. Sends your stomach plummeting. You've never met this man in your life, but you know who he is, what he's done. And yet, the only thing you can say is, "I... I don't smoke."

"Then go out and get some," he snaps, and then, "the fuck kinda joytoy are you?"

You feel nauseated, terrified, but you channel it into anger which is easier than it'd usually be. Johnny's got enough for the both of you. "Fucking ghost off!"

And then he stops. He stops banging his head and just stares at you through those stupid fucking sunglasses and waits. A chill runs down your spine.

You need to get help— need someone to tell you— tell you something. You need to talk to Viktor—

You turn on your heel, ready to make a barefoot sprint out of your front door, but just as quickly, Johnny appears in front of you and pushes you to the ground. His hands are cold and rough, but somehow light as air. It's confusing. Did he just touch you? Or did you imagine it?

Johnny raises a fist, you raise your own but not because you want to, but because— Johnny points, you point, and then he shouts and you feel the words on your tongue like they're leaving your mouth, "Who do you work for, start talkin'!"

Fury melts into confusion, melts into realization, then blood chilling fear.

"Fuck..." you mutter, mirroring Johnny's movements, or maybe he's mirroring yours.

"Fuck..." he repeats, just as scared, just as... violated as you feel. And then the overwhelming anger is back, the accusation— ~~_your fault, it's all your fuckin' fault._~~ "Fuckin' chip..." Johnny reaches behind his ear, ready to scramble your brain— _his_ brain, if only to stop whatever the hell this nightmare is. "Rip this thing out myself!"

"Wait don't—!"

More machine than human, your vision glitches out. Black. Numb. So familiar and yet still cold. You awake a stranger in your own body.

You feel him force you to press yourself against the window, palms shaking, sliding against cold glass as the rain pelts it from the outside.

"I'll take control," he slams your head— _his_ head against the glass with a heavy _thunk_. Blood splatters. You think his— _your_ nose might be bleeding. Or maybe it's your mouth?

"I'll find a way."

_Thunk._

"You hear me?!"

_**Thunk.** _

———

You wake once more, this time sitting in bed with your elbows on your knees, staring down between your feet. Dried blood crusts over your eyebrow where the skin split, and over your nose and lips. Johnny clearly didn't bother cleaning you up—cleaning himself up, because it's not _him_ , it's _you_. _It's you. It's you. It's_ —

Your head hurts worse, now, and Johnny pacing in front of you doesn't help. You know what would though? ~~A bullet to the brain.~~ _The omega pills._ At least they'll keep him quiet... keep him from killing you any quicker than he already is.

Your own hatred bubbles up to the forefront as you pop open the cap and shake a pill from the bottle. "See you never, asshole."

"Not like that." Johnny slaps the bottle from your hand and leans down, brows furrowed as he glares at you. "Stick some iron in your mouth and pull the trigger."

He slaps you across the face, and you feel it— fall to the floor from the force of it. Out of your periphery, you see him stalk past you, mocking you, monologuing his woes about rotten fruit or fucking _whatever_ as if you're supposed to give a shit when he tried to kill you.

You crawl towards the fallen pills, spurred on by desperation, or fear— hatred, maybe... You don't know anymore, can't tell. Your emotions are muddied, blurred by Johnny's ever present disgust and rage. Or it could be your own. You don't think you've ever hated so much before. Or... or maybe you have? It's so familiar, like a word lost but lingering on the tip of your tongue.

You snatch a pill off the floor, fighting against Johnny's desire to choke you with your— _his_ hands. "Leave me alone! Get the fuck out! Just get the fuck out of my head!"

Johnny stops to stand in front of you. "Lead to the head," he points two fingers to his temple, "The only thing that'll fix this." He kneels, and you don't think you've known anything more certain than the fact he wants you dead, or that you want him dead, too. "You hear me, bitch?! A bullet to the fucking brain!"

You slip the pill past your lips and fall onto your back, breathless, exhausted anew. Johnny stands over you, watching you like you're worse than dirt— than trash beneath his boot.

Your vision dims, goes black and then he disappears from sight. Quiet returns to you, but you can feel Johnny buzzing like a gnat behind glass somewhere in your head. "Fuck me..." You’re not sure how to fix this, or even if you can, but at least you know you and your uninvited guest have one thing in common.

You glance at the pills then to your bed that looks just a foot too far for the effort, and decide to take a nap on the floor. Easier that way.


	2. Mutual "Understanding"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 02/14: Grammar fixes, minor plot fixes
> 
> Warnings*: NSFW, Vouyerism, Mutual masturbation, Slight humiliation/degradation kink
> 
> *Please read the story tags for warnings I might have missed, and to be aware of future content warnings.

A few weeks later finds you bored out of your mind with a rapidly emptying bank account, and an inbox full of messages from fixers, associates, and Jackie's mom. The last is the one that scares you the most, however.

And it’s raining; it hasn’t stopped at all this week or since the week before, and you’re starting to wonder if the climate is going to shift again and drown Night City in a vast ocean. 

...You suppose you can only hope _,_ but, realistically, it’s not the weather that’s keeping you huddled in, is it?

_Pathetic._

You don't have time enough to decide whether the thought comes from you or Johnny. ~~It’s you.~~

You've quit taking the pills so consistently after sleeping through your last dose and finding yourself alone, blissfully quiet in your own head. If Johnny's taking pity on you and leaving you be, you'll take advantage of it shamelessly. You'd be a fool not to with the number of side-effects the med boasts.

But the stress of piling bills, Jackie’s impending funeral, and your own expiration date has you sleeping poorly and wishing for relief, in any form, and as a grown woman, you're old enough to recognize one of the quickest ways you can release tension without running a mile is— you guessed it— _masturbation_.

Except there's just one problem, and it's the homicidal, anarchist asshole in your head who can assumptively feel everything you feel and knows your every thought.

Truly a monster of a turn-off if you've ever had one, because:

A) Not only is it embarrassing having to touch yourself with someone— a practical stranger— watching and feeling everything you do, but

B) You have to come up with something to masturbate to, and wow do you not want Johnny Silverhand, douchebag extraordinaire, knowing exactly what lies in your mental spank bank and using it against you the next time he decides to play Russian Roulette with your psyche and depress the fuck out of you.

But on the other hand, should you even care? You’re stressed, and wired as hell, and you're pretty sure you're liable to get into a fight with the first person who breathes at you funny if you go outside feeling this ~~horny~~ _irritated_.

"So, rub one out, I don't give a fuck." Johnny suddenly makes his presence known, appearing on your couch, arms and legs sprawled out like he pays rent. Maybe if he did, you wouldn't have to go outside and pretend you're not scared shitless about having to face the real world.

… At least he seems more amicable now. You just have to stay cautious. Vigilant. He may not have killed you yet, but that doesn't mean he's not planning to, or wants to—

"I don't—"

"And how the hell am I supposed to know that, huh?" The words slip from your mouth before you can stop them.

Johnny sits up, flickers, and then he's standing at the edge of your bed to scowl at you over his sunglasses. "How can you not? You just _do_."

Your traitorous eyes wander, briefly— for a millisecond _at most_ —, across the sharp features of his face: his dark eyes and the way the narrow in on you, and the cut of his jaw where just a few inches down the tendons in his neck bulge through the skin— before you catch yourself. You're not supposed to be talking to him, and you're _definitely_ not supposed to be eye-fucking him. You're still mad ( ~~seriously?~~ ), so you decide to ignore him, choosing to pick at the lint on your sweatpants instead.

Johnny huffs and rocks back on his heels, "The silent treatment?" He moves to sit on the couch again, this time with his hands behind his head and his boots kicked onto your coffee table. "What are you? A fuckin' child?"

"I'm twenty-two—"

"Oh, _twenty-two_ ? My bad." Johnny remarks, tone lilted and mean. "As if I couldn't tell by the hormones and the fact your understanding of the world is limited to exactly _jack_ and _shit._ " He drops his head to his shoulder to look at you, "Twenty-two." A scoff, "The fuck you want for that? A pat on the back? A fuckin' cookie?” Johnny bounces one of his knees up and down rapidly and rolls his neck back so that he’s staring up at the ceiling, clearly having grown too bored or too annoyed to keep looking at you.

"Least I'm not a fossil." You shoot back a little weakly because even you can recognize how useless this argument is. You're just frustrated, and bickering with this brain-rotting rockerboy who ~~_checks the boxes off of every one of your daddy issues_ ~~ _is just_ —

 _Hold on a minute_ —

Johnny's leg stops bouncing for half a second before starting back up again, slightly faster. He still isn’t looking at you, but you feel like he’s distinctly aware of your presence, even past the obvious.

"Are you— can you—" you feel your face warm, "Can you... see my thoughts?"

You think he looks you over, maybe lingering a little too long is some places before he groans in an exasperated way and flickers to stand by your window looking out, "I'm inside of you, dumbass." _Well, he didn't need to say it like that_ — "If I couldn't see what was floatin' around that black hole you call a skull, it'd probably mean you're more braindead than you usually are."

Does this man have any setting other than ‘asshole’?

"You know what? I don't need this." You flop onto your back, suddenly feeling much more determined than before, and chance a glance up at Johnny who has suddenly decided to take a keen interest in watching you. Leaning against your window with his arms folded, he stares, and an immediate feeling of self-conscious dread threatens to creep up on you.

You frown, wrestling the awkwardness away. "Do you mind?"

Johnny rolls his eyes and jerks his head to the side like you asked him to do a high dive off the nearest skyscraper. "Nothin' I ain't seen before," he remarks blandly, tapping his temple twice.

"You're—" ~~Not wrong.~~ "Fine! Whatever." You dip your hand beneath your sweatpants, but stop short at Johnny's snickering. You whip your head over towards him with a glare, "What? What the hell's so funny?"

Johnny raises his hands in mock surrender. "Nothing, nothing at all..." Your eyes narrow, waiting for the punch-line, "...it's just—" _There it is._ "It's the fuckin' future, right? At least, for me it is, and the best thing you can think to do nowadays is fuck your right hand?"

You feel yourself bristle, but decide to brush him off. _One hand is all you need_.

"Ooh, someone's feelin' cocky." Johnny sneers off-handedly just as your fingers brush up against your slit and— "Dry, huh?"

If looks could kill, Johnny wouldn't be a problem anymore. 

“Can you shut the actual fuck up," you turn to stare up at the ceiling, " _Please.”_ _This is hard enough already._

"I can feel it too, ya' know." Johnny says, sauntering closer in that lazy, confident way you’ve really only see him do right. When he’s close, standing directly beside your bed at the almost perfect dick-to-face height ratio, you try not to let your thoughts wander. Johnny leans forward, nearly hovering over you and the shadow his mere presence casts has your rational brain and horny brain fighting each other. "Let me help.” Johnny says, and the sincerity in his suggestion lights something bright within you.

Honestly, you think you might have short-circuited, because it’s almost too crazy. You know there’s no way your homicidal brain parasite did not just offer to—

"Let me help you get off." Johnny drops a knee on your bed, his metallic hand catching the wall to keep himself steady above you. "If you're frustrated, _I'm_ frustrated, and since you clearly don't know how to take care of yourself, I’ll just be doing us both a favor."

_Did he just proposition and insult you in the same breath?_

You glare up at Johnny, but he just stares down at you. It... makes you feel vulnerable. His dark eyes trail down your neck, your chest, your exposed stomach, and when he reaches towards you, you feel your breath catch—

Your front door buzzes, but you're the only one who bothers glancing at it. Johnny's gaze is stuck to you, eyes only snapping up to yours when you decide to address him. 

"You heard that right?"

Johnny gives you a look like you're the dumbest person alive, but still bothers to slink over to the door to look through the digital peephole.

You follow after him. "Can you actually see through that?"

"Yeah, and there are actually a bunch of Arasaka ninjas out there and they're— _no,_ of course I can't, moron. I can only see what's in your general _whatever_." Johnny gestures his hand vaguely as you walk up to him.

"Well… does that mean you can’t see my face?" You think you might sound nervous, maybe? You’re not quite sure why. It shouldn’t matter, right? It’s just a face, even if it is yours, but for some reason thinking that maybe he sees you through the same lens as, say, a braindance, makes you feel uneasy. Like you’re an anonymous source distorted by pixels through a blurry screen. Difficult to see as human, and easy to watch die. 

Johnny's glare flits across your face briefly before returning to your eyes, and you feel seen. Real. "Yeah, I can." His tone is suspiciously guarded and flat, sending the apartment back into a tense silence. You’re relieved, but—

_Is that a bad thing..?_

The door buzzes again, so you shelve the thought to peek through the camera lens. "Pizza's here," but when you turn to look at Johnny he's already gone. You don't know whether you should be happy or disappointed, but you know which one you aren't.

———

After burning the fuck out of the roof of your mouth, and getting comfy in bed, Johnny decides to make his reappearance by dragging your desk chair close and plopping himself down in it. You’re mostly confused.

“How did you..?”

“Shut up.” The sharpness of his words has you tensing, reminded of the first day you met, and you wonder if you could make it to the bathroom where you stupidly left the omega pills if Johnny decides to try to kill you again. He clears his throat, and your eyes snap up to meet. “I’m not— I’m not gonna kill you,” he lifts his hands up, palms out, “Honest, I just need you to start fuckin’ payin’ attention.”

You’re not sure you really trust him— actually, you’re positive you don’t, but you’re not about to jump to conclusions when you could just as easily deescalate. But first, you have to figure out what’s got him so flustered. “Um… pay attention to what exactly?”

Another growl, more frustration mounting, but instead of concerning yourself with why, your mind drifts to imagining him making that sound again, only this time with your nails raking through his scalp, _pulling on his hair with a hard tug_ —

“See! _That._ ” Johnny points at you, and though you follow the direction, his actual goal is a mystery. He might as well be speaking gibberish as far as you’re concerned. “Are you fuckin’ dumb?”

When you frown he shakes his head.

“No, scratch that, I know you are, but just—“ he groans and grabs you and you feel him for a second, but then his hands slip through you like he’s nothing more than a hologram. “No, shit, fuck that’s not what I—“ Johnny makes to grab you again, but this time he connects like a shock of ice or electricity, and you’re terrified. That hasn’t happened before, has it?

You look at Johnny, he looks at you, and then he’s sitting back on the desk chair like he’s exhausted and annoyed with whatever had possessed him with so much energy. _And here you thought you were the frustrated one._

“You _are._ ” Johnny lets his head loll back, one arm slung behind the back rest, and wow. You must really be down bad, because your brain goes to the most R-rated scene possible and the man is just _sitting there_. In your mind’s eye though? You’re between his legs, hands gripping his thighs, _and your mouth wrapped around his_ —

Johnny growls and sits up with a quickness you haven’t seen him move with before. He scowls at you, brows furrowed and then fluffs his organic hand through his hair like he’s trying to calm himself down. When he’s settled, he’s sitting at the same lazy angle, but his gaze is more focused. Predatory.

You try not to squirm. “What?”

Johnny lets his eyes wander from your face down, and the intensity nearly makes you wish you were wearing more than just a loose tank and panties. When his gaze returns to yours, they stay there, pinning you in place. “Touch yourself for me,” he says, tone even but gruff. Confident.

“Excuse me?”

Johnny doesn’t miss a beat, glancing away only once before zeroing in on you again. “Y’heard me, and don’t act like you’re all innocent in this shit either.” Johnny tilts his head from side to side as if weighing his options, “You think like a slut, I’ll treat you like a slut. Doesn’t matter so long as we both get what we want in the end.” His eyes drag down your body, then back up again, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. “Might even have some fun gettin’ there.”

Your mouth hangs open, gaping like a fish. You never would have imagined this being how your Relic situation would pan out. You open and close your mouth, like you’re going to say something despite there not being a single thought in your head that comes close to even the concept of ‘no’.

Johnny moves forward to rest his elbows on his knees, the low light of your bedroom casting harsh shadows along his face, accentuating every curve and angle of his features— his jaw and nose, the high cheekbones that’d fit nicely between your thighs. Johnny returns to his original sitting position, snapping you from your daydreaming.

He nods, smirk now full and sharp with white teeth. He’s not even trying to hide anymore how amusing he finds all of this. “Well?”

You fidget, and consider briefly about putting up a fuss, but know it’d only be for show to save the barely-there pride you should’ve left behind a long time ago. _Johnny is in your head._ Right now, there isn’t a person alive who knows you like he does, because he’s a piece of you as weird as that kind of is. And it’s because of your connection that you know that dragging this out will just make his ego bigger.

Taking a deep breath in and then out, you close your eyes while moving your hand down to slip beneath your panties—

“No, no, no, _stop._ _Fuck’s sake._ ”

Your eyes snap open, face and ears warm as you scowl at him, indignant. “You just told me to touch myself, and now you want me to stop?!”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “No wonder you’re pent up all the fuckin’ time. You treat jackin’ off like it’s a chore.” He licks his bottom lip and bites it with a small laugh and a shake of his head, “I bet when you cum, you barely even notice. Probably already halfway outta bed before your cunt stops drippin’. Honestly doubt you work yourself hard enough to even get to that point, though.”

You huff and fold your arms, feeling vulnerable and humiliated. “It’s not supposed to be a goddamn ritual, Johnny. It’s just supposed to relieve stress.”

The short breath Johnny lets out is somehow clearly condescending, grating at your already frayed nerves. “I guess I’ll say it again: this is why you’re so wound up.” He eyes you, the left corner of his lips tilted into a promising grin. “A pair of fingers won’t do you any justice, but you'll have to settle for now.” You swear to god his eyes light up with the revelation, a promise you wish you didn’t care that he’d keep.

You try your best to pretend he doesn’t affect you despite the dampness you’re starting to feel. This is all so shocking— _overwhelming_ , but the way he’s looking at you like he’s thoroughly enjoying every inch of exposed skin you’re showing him despite his words, has your confidence spiking up.

“Okay, fine.” You say, turning to face Johnny until your feet are on the ground, knees spread and almost close enough to touch the insides of his legs. His grin widens, just slightly, and you feel yourself preen at his interest. “Since apparently you know so much more about my body than I do, tell me what I should do first.”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Johnny reaches forward and brushes his fingertips along the sensitive skin of your thighs before tapping them, encouraging you to spread them wider. When you’re all bared to him, he sits back again and readjusts his sunglasses with a mischievous smile. “Keep 'em open just like that, and run your hands up your body, working those tits until they’re nice and perked up for me. Wanna see the way they look all sensitive and pokin’ out right against that shirt.”

You roll your lips between your teeth, but comply, dragging your nails up and beneath your shirt until you’re cupping your breasts in each hand.

“That’s right, now tease ‘em, nice and gentle. Roll ‘em between your fingers like that and _pinch._ ”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose, and squirm as you do as he says, legs flinching like they’re trying to close but the faint cold press of Johnny’s rough palm keeps you from doing anything more than twitch. Heat builds between your legs, damp and aching, making you hyper aware of how your panties stick against your clit.

Your nipples are hard, but Johnny doesn’t tell you to stop. He just watches you with this shit-eating grin on his face while his other hand grips your thigh in a way that, if he were more solid, would certainly bruise.

You need friction and are close to saying something obscene just to get him to tell you what to do next, but before you can even get the words out—

“ _Stop.”_

You stop, and you don’t even notice the way your hips halt their subtle jerking. Johnny does, though.

“Turns out you _can_ follow orders.” Johnny practically purrs. When you frown, he laughs, tone still derisive but darkened with desire. “ _Good girl...”_ Johnny nods at you once, prompting you to pay attention. “Now, drag those fingers down your stomach.”

You comply, stopping just short of the top of your panties.

Johnny smiles, dark and devious. “Good, good… now, I want you to run your fingers up and down that little cunt of yours without touching your clit.”

You bite the inside of your cheek as you do as he says, the tips of your fingers pressing slow and hard along your clothed lips, the fabric drawing wet against your skin. You feel yourself clench and unclench, worked up and a breath away from bucking into your own hand. It doesn’t help that you can feel Johnny’s gaze on your skin— hot— sweltering. Burning you from the inside out.

You run your fingers up, pausing near your throbbing clit, and you have to fight against yourself to keep from casting his rules to the side and fucking yourself like you want. You glance at Johnny, and find him watching you with the same pitch smile, but there’s an edge of provocation to it— like he’s urging you, testing you, daring you to _do it and see what happens._

You want to tell him where to shove it, but you want to cum more.You continue teasing yourself, even as Johnny’s low, mocking laugh echoes in your ears.

When your panties are drenched and ruined by your slick, Johnny tells you to stop again, forcing you to bite back a whine at the sudden lack of stimulation.

You feel Johnny run his hand up and down your thigh, a ragged groan rumbling in his chest as he sits up and nods his head at you, appraising. Impressed. “You did so good. Thinkin’ you deserve that reward, right about now.”

You hum in agreement, but the sound comes out more like a muffled mewl.

With a deep chuckle, Johnny waves his hand, “Well, go on. Fuck yourself. I wanna see how you get off. Make yourself cum for me.”

You don’t need any more prompting than that. Your hand tugs the seat of your panties to the side, exposing yourself to cool air before you’re using three fingers to circle your clit. You cry out, your touch electrifying, sending pleasurable shivers down your spine, rousing goosebumps across your skin.

You moan, eyes half lidded and bright as you watch Johnny pop open a button and unzip his leathers to pull out the thick cock that had been tenting his pants. He groans, pumping himself slowly then faster to match the frantic rhythm of your strumming fingers.

“F-fuck, you look so fuckin’—” he grunts, hips bucking into his hand, “—so fuckin’ _hot._ Slip those pretty fingers in, sweetheart, wanna— _hah, fuck_ — s-see you filled up. Wanna feel the way you— _squeeze_ ‘round those fingers. How you’d feel stretched ‘round my cock.”

You whine high, nodding as you follow his orders, slipping one— two fingers in while your thumb rubs hard circles into your clit. The effect has you and Johnny arching, thrusting into your respective hands, gripping your bedsheets while Johnny digs his nails into your thigh.

“Agh, _fuck_.” Johnny growls, and then he’s leaned forward close enough that he’s the only thing you see. You feel his chrome hand weave into your hair, tugging you, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Gonna cum for me, slut? Gonna— gonna cum hot and wet and fuckin’ hard for me?”

You nod hurriedly, gasping when your fingers brush up against a sensitive spot that has you seeing stars. “Fuck, yes, _Johnny_!”

Johnny grunts like he’s in pain, working himself faster, and you want him inside you— wish it was him touching you like this— fucking you rough and so, so _deep_ —

“Cum with me, darlin’,” Johnny demands, voice breathless and dark. “Cum _for_ me. Screamin’ my name in that pretty little voice. _Johnny._ Come on, do it. _Johnny.”_

“Johnny!” You cry out, cumming just like he said— hard and wet, and so tight around your fingers they slip out and you’re forced to fall back, limp and panting. You keep murmuring his name, too, still trembling, aching with each rolling tremor— completely spent.

Johnny groans, settling back in his chair and you when you open your eyes, you watch the way his cock twitches, leaking cum that drips down the slowly softening length of him. You close your eyes, moaning softly when you feel rough hands, warm this time, pick your legs up and lead them until you’re laying in bed comfortably.

You try to open your eyes, but your vision is a bit blurry. You feel a swipe of soft hair, then slightly rougher hair pressing against your temple. A pair of slightly chapped lips brushing over the sweaty skin there. 

“Rest up, kid. Got a hell of a day ahead of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fucking relics, how do they work?  
> and i don't wanna talk to arasaka scientists  
> y'all motherfuckers lyin', and getting me pissed  
> ✋🤡


	3. Unexpected Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i mention i wrote this cuz i was horny about j silverhand? cuz i wrote this fic bc i was horny about j silverhand. hope yall like smut in ya smut, and smut in your feelings. 💃🏽💃🏽

Since  _ coming _ to a mutual understanding with Johnny Silverhand, things have been… different. Your relationship with Johnny is different, to be exact, and you’re not sure what to make of it. 

You wouldn’t say you and Johnny are friends. Quite the opposite, in fact. You’re pretty sure he still resents you as much or maybe even more than you hate him, but knowing that you’re both at least somewhat attracted to each other has sent things spiraling into a territory you have only the barest experience in—  _ enemies with benefits. _ Or… or something like that...

_ OK, look. _ You’re not entirely sure where you stand with Johnny. He’s an enigma, sometimes even to himself, but especially to you. Some days he’s, well,  _ good to you _ — nicer than he usually is, less confrontational. He’s even been known to agree with you on some things, pick your side. But when he’s not? He’s a real pain in the ass to deal with. 

Like a switch that’s been flipped, he goes out of his way to make your life difficult. If he’s not insulting you, he’s pissing you off with his condescension. If he’s not being condescending, he’s philosophizing your morals and humanity, making you question your worth as a human being. He loves doing that a lot, actually, but, funnily enough, it  _ isn’t _ a topic well appreciated when your existence is literally being erased during every second you spend wondering if you even deserve to be alive anymore.

It's like newsflash, Johnny! Not everyone has a death wish in need of fulfilling. Twice.

But in true Silverhand fashion, as much as he pisses you off, you just can’t seem to get enough of him. You think you’re starting to see why Rogue doesn’t just ignore the bastard. It’s not because she doesn’t want to, it’s because she  _ can’t. _

“Johnny…” Your voice is airy and high, desperate in that way that has him stroking himself faster. 

He grunts, eyes glued to you, flicking between your glistening cunt and the way your head lolls back with every downward push onto the toy that’s inside of you.

You whimper, thighs shaking in exertion or maybe pleasure, but you feel the build up tightening your inner walls, pulsing around soft plastic that just barely fits between your thighs, snug in all the right places. “Johnny,  _ please. _ ”

Johnny groans, fisting himself with his ‘ganic hand, while his chrome digs into the edge of his seat. He fucks up into his tightened fist, outpacing your slow cum hungry thrusts so easily he can’t help but imagine how needy you’d be stretched out around his cock and begging him— for more, for relief, to let you cum in that sweet way you babble and moan just before falling over the edge.

And he’d be  _ ruthless. _ There wouldn’t be a force on Earth, or hell,  _ in orbit, _ that could make him stop. He’d fuck you through it all, hard and deep while you clench, shivering, nails digging into his back, into the sheets, yourself—  _ anywhere, _ just needing an anchor to keep from being swept up into the current and drowning in it.

He’d want you to, though. Be his goal to make you, to force you to forget about everything and everyone else and just feel  _ him, _ feel the way  _ he’s _ making you feel. Johnny’d fuck you silly— fuck you damn stupid until you’re drooling and dripping onto the bed, until all you can think about is him, until he’s the only thing you want.

You’d have to beg real pretty for him to show mercy. No gonk pride, no sarcasm, no thinly-veiled annoyance, just you, truthfully and honestly begging for what you want, begging for his dick, and being happy with whatever way he decides to fuck you with it.

_ Shit... _ you’d sound so good, feel good, too, he bets. Squeezing around him and- and—

“Johnny, please!” You cry out, and damn if it isn’t music to his ears. “I’m so close, please, please, _please!_ ”

You speed up, the wet sounds of your thrusts spurring Johnny on, his hips pounding up into his hand imagining it’s _you._ “Look at me.” Johnny demands, hoarse and gritted through clenched teeth. When your eyes meet, he can’t help the tilted grin that finds its way onto his mouth. “That’s it, darlin’, just like- like that. Fuck...”

He’d never tell you, not outright, not without having an excuse on hand, but you always look damn gorgeous like this— on the cusp of cumming, chanting his name and pleading for him, for any and everything he can only give you. And… fuck, who’s he kidding? You look gorgeous most of the time— anytime, and he thinks that’s part of your charm, part of why he can’t stop giving into temptation, why this  _ thing  _ you’ve got wasn’t the one-off he planned it out to be.

He doesn’t even like you, not really, not… not really at all. Honestly. You’re a mercenary, a hitman, a thief with morals as flexible as a joytoy at a corporat’s bachelor party. Based on his own morals, he should hate you— despise everything you stand for, because your ultimate goal isn’t for the betterment of society, it’s eddies. You’re no better than a corpo-slut— in fact, you’re arguably worse, because you have the means, the drive to make change, and you just don’t give enough of a fuck to do it.

But when he reaches forward, snatching your chin between fingers just itching to bruise, to dig chrome into armored skin and watch it shade purple, his touch turns light at the very last second and something like guilt crawls beneath his skin. Even his gaze turns gentle, apologetic almost, and imagining hurting you on purpose nearly has him going soft. He lets go of you.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

There’s no way a little piece of ass has him, Johnny fucking Silverhand, going gooey like a preteen with a crush. Not like this, and definitely not so fucking quickly. He’s a grown man, a rockerboy legend with probably hundreds of notches in his belt, and all it takes to make him doughy is some merc kid with a pretty face and a loud mouth?

Maybe it’s… it’s because he was in fucking soul prison for over 50 years? Yeah, that’s probably it. You’re his only outlet, his only connection to life. No one else can see him or talk to him, and he can barely interact with anything aside from you in the world. No one even knows he’s alive yet, no one but you. So it tracks, right? ‘Course he’d form an attachment to you. It’s only natural.

Resolutely, he ignores the echoes of something hidden in his chest. The weird shit he refuses to unpack. Ever, preferably. No, instead, he pulls himself back into the moment, back into you, and leaves the other shit for poor, unfortunate future Johnny to work out. The fucking gonk.

He focuses on your eyes, your lips, the way you undulate and fucking seize around the toy he convinced you to buy last night before turning in. He’s thankful it arrived today, for future technology and its near instant deliveries, because he needed to see this. He needed to see you, feel you release that tension that builds whenever you both land on the same frequency. 

Sure, he can tune you out, pretty easily in fact (how else would he be able to keep a level head whenever you get yourself shot or hurt), but it’s always easier when he lets himself feel you. It’s less cold that way.

And you’re whimpering, having held out like a good little slut, waiting for his command, his approval, before cumming like he knows you want to. You may not listen to him during ops, but in these little encounters? You’re as obedient as he needs you to be.

He fucks himself, building back that momentum, that edge he had before his mind drifted and went off the rails. Your tits bounce, thighs struggling to keep open and wide, and you look like you’re close to crying, having been kept from cumming for so long you might actually cum without even intending to.

“You’re doin’ so good for me, doll…” Johnny encourages, because he needs you to hold it, needs you to cum with him like he needs you to breathe. “Ya’ gonna keep moanin’ my name? Ya’ gonna—”

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before you’re groaning, still humping the toy inside you, hands gripping your bed sheets to help you keep pace as you call out his name. “Johnny, please let me cum. Johnny, please, _Johnny—…_ ”

He wishes he could record this and replay it in his head over and over and _over._ He’s never seen you get this desperate, never saw that spark in your eyes light like fire clawing towards him, begging to be let out so it can burn the whole damn tower down. He feels his cock twitch, precum making the slide of his palm sound wet and sticky. He’s close, all he needs now is for you to—

“Cum for me, darlin’,” Johnny leans in, trying once more to take your face into his metallic hand, firm, but gentler, kinder, and you all but liquefy under his faint touch. Your mouth hangs open, eyes near closing, but you’re good for him— so fucking good— and you’re trying not to close your eyes, but he can feel the way the pleasure shocks through you, the way you try to fight against the tight coil that snaps and frays, let loose in the hardest orgasm you’ve had in your life.

Pride swells in Johnny’s chest, even as he cums, dirtying a vest that’s not really there and smearing against leather pants that only exist on a piece of shitty Arasaka tech wedged into his girl’s brain. 

Shit… and the come down? The come down is atrociously soft, comforting, and when he manages to right himself, tucking his dick back into his pants so he can sit up and properly look at you, he can’t tell if he wants to clean you up or fuck you.

You’ve practically ruined your sheets, thighs and cunt slick and messy. God, he’d love to just eat you out, shove his mouth against your slit and just go to fucking town until you’re right back where you started, to twitching and moaning for him. Just him.

...Maybe later. But for right now, he’s gotta convince you to clean yourself up, or at the very least throw down a towel. You know, for next time.

\------

You wake up in a sweat, vision shimmering, glitched out in the low blue light emitting from the ever present, ever spinning advert display in your living room. You blink at it in a daze, feeling the urge to puke creep further up your throat. You had gone to sleep after Johnny helped you clean up, tired as fuck, but something in your brain refused to quiet down even after you passed out. You think you had a nightmare, only you can't quite remember it, now.

“Trouble sleepin’?” Johnny asks without looking, half lying on the foot of your bed with his feet on the ground and his 'ganic arm supporting the back of his head. His other lazily taps a cigarette out onto an ashtray filled with a handful of black buds and ash.

You stare at him, struck momentarily by the almost soft tranquility you see on his face. A contrast to the usual impassioned or otherwise apathetic glare he usually sports. Well, it’s that and he’s not wearing his sunglasses for once.

And it’s not even like you haven’t seen him bare faced before; Johnny’s taken them off plenty of times, but for some reason it feels like you’re seeing him for the first time.

He turns to look at you when you don’t respond, and you note some small details you’ve never bothered to count, like the way his nose crooks a bit to the left, where, presumably, it broke and never quite healed right. There’s a small scar there too, and a couple of scratches on his left cheekbone and above his brow.

One of them arches, “Somethin’ on my face, doll?”

_ Doll?  _ That’s a new one. You think he might've called you that while you were, um, relieving tension, but he's never once called you some stupid pet-name outside of sex. You... think you might like it.

You shake your head. “Ah, nothing,” and then like you aren’t being awkward enough, “Sorry.”

Johnny hums, and watches you a while longer before shrugging and returning to his smoke. You try not to gawk this time as the silence lingers, just slightly less comfortable than before, but you can’t help but steal glances at him, curious about what you missed and why you’re just seeing it now.

“You gonna say somethin’, or are you just gonna keep starin’ at the side of my face like a schoolgirl with a crush?”

Your curiosity becomes horrified embarrassment quicker than you can shoot a gun. You search for an excuse, “I’m not staring, I’m just... looking.” _Yeah, no shit._ _Ugh… How did you get so bad at lying all of a sudden?_

Clearly unconvinced, Johnny sighs, sits up, and puts his sunglasses back on. He doesn’t snuff the cigarette out though, precious addiction of his. He turns to you, pressing his back up against the wall opposite of where you’re facing and it’s intimate the way he spreads his legs, knees bent so that your own fit neatly between them.

Johnny pats his thighs twice with both hands and takes a short hit while he nods for you to come closer. When you don’t move, he rolls his eyes. “Come over ‘fore I change my mind, doll. Night’s not gettin’ any younger.”

You fidget, “Um… not that I’m not interested but, I think you’re forgetting one key problem.” You reach forward to touch Johnny’s leg, fully expecting your hand to pass through, but it doesn’t.  _ It connects. _

Your eyes widen, “How-”

Johnny grabs your wrist and tugs you closer. It’s almost disturbing how easily you follow him, straddling his hips like he’s actually there. Your hands naturally find his shoulders, steadying yourself as he shifts to pull you higher into his lap and you have to bite down a gasp at the feel of him between your legs. You're still sore, but he's here. You can feel him, even if you don't really understand why or how. You're not going to let this opportunity pass you by—

Johnny must have saw through you, because all he does is chuckle before pulling you closer, until your head is resting on his shoulder, tucked up beneath his chin.

"Got plenty of time for that later, get some rest." He says, taking a hit while his free hand strokes your back, and you can feel the warmth of the smoke that passes over your shoulder.

In the back of your mind, you know this is weird. Johnny isn't the type for aftercare, he never stuck around the past few times you've fucked yourself in front of him, at least, but this must have been different. Somehow. Regardless, you are tired, and try to stamp down your feelings even as they attempt to bloom. No one's ever really held you like this before, especially not after sex. You're used to one-night-stands. A shared moment of lust between friends at the best of times, but with Johnny it's different. It's intimate... It's... it's _scary._

You know if you fall into this, _whatever this is,_ you're only going to get hurt. You've never cared for someone like Johnny, never felt this perturbed or hopeful for something you know has got an end. And as you fall asleep, reluctant and anxious, but comfortable— so goddamn comfortable it _hurts—_ you hear Johnny hum a tune to a song you'll probably never get a chance to listen to again. _He sounds nice._ And it's with that last thought that your worries fade way.


End file.
